With Eyes Like That
by Suki
Summary: A grungily dressed man with a green afro trying to adjust to normal living is failing miserably, but a new friend could help take the edge off his pain. [SpikeOC]


**With Eyes Like That**

By Suki

Spike's nimble fingers silhouetted against the shy morning light. He stretched them and wiggled them, holding his hand high above him, back-down on the mattress, studying. How long had it been since he held a gun?

In swift decision, he straightened. He stepped onto the floor, bent over, and flung some papers and towels about the room. Found what he was looking for. He drew a wrinkled blue coat over his slept-in suit, then slipped into his shoes and exited the apartment.

Spike scratched the back of his fluffy hair, gangly limbs swinging around him sleepily.

The old landlady, Mrs. Fink, didn't charge him any rent for his one-room living arrangements. She called him Harry and put him up right away upon his arrival, asking how Jane was and offering to keep him as long as he needed. He had tried once or twice to tell her she mistook him for someone else, but the woman with wild gray hair waved him away, saying, "Nonsense, Harry. I've known you since you were no bigger than my knee."

Spike trotted down the stairs and took a turn into the bar directly below his apartment. The swinging door creaked its complaint.

Inside, even in the bright morning, the bar was dusty, murky, and dim. It was also empty. Spike approached the counter and perched on a stool, leaning on his folded arms, eyes drooping.

A young, pale woman with strawberry hair dangling in two flowing ribbons from behind her ears broke her glance from its concentration somewhere beneath the counter. She seemed flustered when she saw him.

"I need a drink," he told her, in his languid speech.

The young woman tilted the corner of her mouth in worry. "It's ten-thirty in the morning, Spike. We're not even open yet."

"Come on now, Cat," he said, waving away her protest. He smiled foolishly.

"No," Cat repeated, stern but not mean. "You haven't paid for your drinks yesterday and the day before that. Why don't you get a job?"

"Just put it on my tab. You know where I live."

Her thin brows furrowed.

"Catrina, give the man a drink," came a bellowing voice. "Spike's our best customer."

The towering, white-clad figure of Mr. Chester, the bar owner, lumbered by and behind the counter and disappeared again into the back room. He was grinning.

Cat crossed her eyes, then sank grudgingly to retrieve a glass.

"That a girl," Spike grinned. He leaned over the counter, directing her. "The tall one. No. The other. Rum . . .wait – scotch." He paused. Pointed. "Hey, what's that? What're you reading there?"

"It's nothing," Cat replied, irked.

Spike snatched up the book before she could hide it.

"_Literary theory in 'The Rime of the Ancient Mariner.'_ Sounds boring."

Cat took her book back. "It's for school, okay?"

"What in the world do you intend to do with that degree? Around here?"

The young woman adopted a faint, misty look. "I – I want to learn."

"What's the use?" Spike, growing impatient with Cat's musing, opened the bottle and helped himself to a brimming glass.

"I like it," Cat said softly, watching him.

He returned her glance over the rim of his glass. The line of the amber liquid receded, revealing the poorly concealed hurt in the bartender's features. Finishing, Spike slammed the glass down in triumph. "How about a refill?"

Cat tucked her book safely back into its hiding place beneath the counter and moved to refill Spike's drink. He watched the thick liqueur intently, wishing its intoxicating smell would diminish this sudden prick of guilt.

* * *

Much later, after the late night crowd was shoved out of the bar and sent stumbling home, the churning atmosphere burst with a violent downpour.

Cat wiped down the bar then rubbed her eye with the back of her hand.

"Why don't you head home, sweetie," Mr. Chester said, patting her with a thick, hairy arm. "I can finish it up from here. You've had a long day."

Cat nodded gratefully. She slipped on her sleek trench coat over her sensible, comfortable attire, clutched her bag, and approached the door. The strong smell of rain misted from beneath it. She opened it hesitantly, paused, and then stepped out underneath the doorpost.

She expected to feel the sharp wetness pressing her skin, but a shadow came over her, intervening between her small frame and the raging sky. A flash of light lit up the dirty street. On her left, leaning against the doorpost lazily, Spike held the black umbrella over her.

"Thanks," she said genuinely.

He nodded. His eyes were dark and narrow but not quite right. Something was off about them. They always seemed poorly matched, somehow.

"You need an escort home?" he asked.

She looked at the long, strong limb hovering near her shoulder, keeping the rain back from her aching head. "Please," she consented.

They walked without speaking, splashing along the sidewalk and dodging wading cars. At her apartment, she smiled. "Thanks a lot, Spike. Can I make some tea or something? To warm you up?"

He shrugged. "Sure."

She fidgeted with the lock and swung the door open, flipping on the light. They entered her small, modestly furnished apartment.

"Have a seat."

Spike reclined heavily into her futon sofa, and Cat moved into the kitchen to put the kettle on the stove. She came back and shed her coat onto an armchair.

"I didn't mean to be short with you today. I'm sorry," she said.

Spike's sleek smile curved his mouth. "Don't worry about it."

"I just – your questioning – it makes me think, you know? I don't like thinking. I seem to believe that if I take a deep breath and one long dash, by the time I finish it'll all be okay. The truth is . . . you're probably right. What on earth am I going to do with a college education in a place like this?"

Spike smiled strangely. "I know what you'll do."

She raised an eyebrow. "What?"

"You'll pass it on to others."

She started. Relaxed. Looked at him thoughtfully.

Some time passed. The kettle whistled.

She went into the kitchen and came out again with two steaming mugs. She placed one on the coffee table in front of her guest. He picked it up and sipped. Then she walked to the window, and watched the streaks of shining light race past and splatter against her window.

Suddenly, "Who are you, Spike Spiegel?"

He smiled deeply. "Who do _you_ think I am?" in that playful manner.

She looked pensive. "I think . . .." Vaguely, "I think . . .." Determined. "I think that when you smile like that, it makes me want to burst into tears."

A blank sternness replaced the fake joviality. She had been around him long enough, was perceptive enough to recognize this as his truest expression. He blinked, and she thought that one eye took a bit longer to focus.

Placing his cup carefully on the table, Spike rose and walked across the room to her. "I'm the walking dead," he stated simply. His eyes were deep, deep and crimson. She took in a breath quickly. No, it was true. His eyes. They didn't quite match.

Spiked sighed and broke their gaze by tilting his head toward the window. "The truth is . . . you're a lot braver than I am, Cat. You want something, so you go after it, regardless of what the rest of the world thinks, of the odds against you. Me, I just mope around here, waiting for the past to finally kill me. I tried to run away from it for such a long time instead of confronting it. Then it all came in a rush and exploded in my face." He pressed his warm fingertips against the frosty pane. "I used to be a killer."

Cat's brow deepened.

He was calm, always calm. "Maybe I can't escape that. But I'm gonna try."

"Your eyes . . .," Cat murmured. "Someone with your eyes . . . you can do anything."

Their gazes locked. An unspoken understanding.

Then Spike said, "I better go."

He strode to the door and retrieved his glistening umbrella. Cat followed him.

"Thank you for the tea," he said.

She opened the door for him, and he stepped out into the storm, opening his umbrella. He stopped and faced her. "The last two women in my life were paradoxes. One was a celestial siren and the other an innocent shrew –."

"Don't say anything," Cat covered her mouth with her hand, trying to obscure her glowing flush. "It's okay, I know. I don't expect . . .."

Spike's face remained unsmiling, but something about the shadows and sharpness of his features lightened. "I was just going to say it's nice to meet a girl who is what she claims to be."

Cat's pale brow smoothed. She smiled faintly.

"It's good to talk," he said. "Let's do it again."

Cat nodded.

He left. She closed the door and went back to her window to watch his receding figure.

Once, he turned and looked back at her. Then he moved swiftly into the smoggy haze.

6


End file.
